


Batshit crazy in love

by Glendaa



Series: The HFA Conundrum [3]
Category: Actor RPF, Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF, Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Boys In Love, Governors Awards, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-08-26 02:07:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16672723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glendaa/pseuds/Glendaa
Summary: If anyone’s wondering what happened to make Timothée’s declaration at the Governors Awards come into being… Here you go!





	Batshit crazy in love

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel, as for timeline, to ‘This time it’s not buttons’ and ‘RIP, Turtleneck!’, but works as a standalone fic as well.  
> Sorry not betaed or anything. Written on the wings of emotion. What can I say, these two make my heart go pitter-patter… I cannot stop! 
> 
> Dedicated to Paal, Carla and Brandy who share my dislike for unfashionable Armie attire and to the whole I wanted you know… Fanfic discussion and admiration group on Facebook. Love you guys!

 

He knows.

He knows exactly how to get under my skin, the little shit.

How to never let me forget who’s in charge.

How I might be the dominant in bed, but totally powerless everywhere else.

_Fuck._

\----------- 

First, there was the whole i-D photoshoot.

I hate those photos – they make him look like a brazen Marlon Brando, ready to fuck or get fucked.

Naked biceps, hairless chest, sharp jaw, planes of his body showing. So exposed. I don’t mind the coat photos much. Cool and artsy and edgy and blablabla-, suggested the stylist. Who the fuck cares. Standing on a stool? Go for it.

What I hate is the leather bomber shot.

Well, no, I don’t hate it.

I detest it.

I despise it.

I loathe it.

I feel such an animosity for that glob of pixels that it makes me question my sanity of mind.

He’s too skinny, still recovering from his BB role and he’s so fragile I feel I could break his wrists if I gripped them too hard. And yet, he’s looking at me, oh so daring, oh so impudent. That shot is all him – his arched brow, his fuckable lips, long earring grazing his neck _I want to bite him_ _there_ and that fucking chain _boy, I’ll show you a chain once we meet again_ resting on his throat _I need to fill that hollow with my come right now or I’ll explode._

The little shit is looking straight at me, saying “Come and get me”. And I’m miles away and he knows it and I have to jerk off and making do by dirtying his photo instead of him and fuck, now I need another copy and it’s impossible to find and thank God for ebay and WTF 50 bucks for the mag?!

I smile. My boy. Shining like the star he is! And then I think of all the men jerking off on these photos like I just did and I groan.

 _You’ll pay for this, little shit. You have it coming._ As for Harry Styles? I don’t even want to go there.

\-----------

And then there was that fucking IG. Apparently he’s decided to keep tormenting me. For like ever.

He’s bored by his plane delay and posts the pic that has the whole world aawwing all over him.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. It’s not even funny anymore how I can get from sleepy to hard in 3 seconds. #selfieking #dead #beautifulboyindeed

Hoodie almost covering his tired eyes, pouty lips peeking out from his graceful hand, _wait, what’s that mess with the headphones? come on Tim, never heard of_ _untangling before wearing them?_ aargh, I feel such a dad for thinking this, definitely not a daddy. Gosh. He looks so young and I feel slightly guilty for my desire.

I have to remember he’s very much of age. He’s no kid, hasn’t been for quite a while. It’s the bloody Little Women haircut that makes him look so innocent. I want to wreck him! Want to tease and caress and bit and lick until he’s a blabbering mess begging me to come. Hoodie on, obviously.

And yet, again, it’s me the one who’s humping the sheets like a horny teenager. _Fuck._

He owns me. In everything he does, I’m his.

\-----------

And then there’s tonight, the Governors Awards. I cleaned up nicely this time, no offending turtleneck or boring brown tie or grumpy Milan shirt. Fuck beige or brown and other monstrosities – I’m looking dapper if I say so myself. I shaved, channeling Oliver for once. I know he’ll say that he prefers me with a bit of a scruff, that he lamented the razor burn on tv but that was all a joke, he loves feeling marked by me, loves my beard on his tender skin.

Oh, I know. I know how he shivers when I rake my chin across his smooth belly. How he arches beneath me. But the little shit has to pay for the horny weeks he’s gifted me. So, none of that, boy. Not tonight.

When I see him, he’s gorgeous as usual. I love how he’s coming more and more into himself, finding a style that’s uniquely his. Always those delicate, masculine suits – this one has a geometric decor slithering on his shoulder, like a snake coiled on his body. So hot.

I pose for the usual shots, smoldering gaze fixed on the press and then Timothée’s running towards me and we hug.

I forget everything.

I should be in command, strong and poised and yet I smile like a lunatic at having him in my arms in front of everybody. To be honest, we both smile and laugh and it’s magical. But after what feels like a mere minute he’s running away, and I don’t care how that will look, I have to run after him, tell him to meet me at dinner, tell him “don’t disappear on me”.

It’s me chasing him down - looks like my ‘revenge plan’ is going so nicely! _Fuck_.

I finally corner him at the bathroom’s queue. Can you believe it? A queue at the gents’? Luckily the women’s stalls are free – apparently there’s an even bigger boudoir-style loo on the other side of the salon, with available hair dressers and make-up counters and whatnots. Bless the ladies and their shit. Nobody is looking at us, no respectable straight white man would use a womens’ bathroom right? Right!

I push him inside, lock the door and devour his mouth before he can say “hi”.

“Wow, Hammer. Is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just glad to see me?”

“Just. Shut. The. Fuck. Up. Chalamet”, I growl palming him through his trousers.

And that’s when I see it – the geometric, serpentine thing on his jacket is no decor. It’s a fucking cutout!

I groan. If he didn’t have a white shirt on, his luscious creamy skin would be on display under that. “You’ll be the death of me, Timothée”.

“I thought I already told you I plan on being the life of you, Arms”.

We lock eyes and it’s all there – our joy, our longing, our love.

“Missed you”. “Missed you too”.

“Let me make it good for you, boy”, I kneel in front of him and as I lower his pants down he’s already moaning. I hiss. _No underwear._

“Not wanting to ruin the look with lines, you know?” And he’s smirking at me, just like Elio when he’s touching Oliver’s neck, both sitting on the floor after the nosebleed. Knowing he brought me exactly where he wanted me.

“We’ll see”, I smirk myself starting to suck earnestly. We don’t have much time for finesse I’m afraid. I graze his balls with my nails, index going lower, skimming his hole, just a tease.  
He’s panting now.

“Please, I’ve been good. I haven’t touched myself for days. Just like you said”.

“Like I ordered, you mean”, I growl.

“Yes. Yes. Please make me come now. Please Armie”.

He’s so beautiful right now, hooded eyes, biting his lower lip…

I stand up. “Come on now. Time to go back”.

“Wh-What?”, he stutters.

“I said come on, Tim. We are here for work, remember? Jesus, look at you! Do you intend to show up like that? I suggest a cold wash on that”, I point at his angry-red erection, precome and spit _my spit_ slicking him up. “Chop-chop, we're late!”

He looks at me uncomprehending, anger starting to creep in. “If you want to come any time soon, I advise you to knock off that pout. Now. And don’t even think of taking care of your hard-on yourself!”

He mutters something under his breath, sighs and then goes to the marble sink. “You are so cruel, Armie! I wouldn’t ever do that to you”.

“Shut up, Tim. You love edging!”, I hug him from behind and nip his neck. “It’s me that’s been having a few rough weeks thanks to your nice pics”.

“Oh. So that’s what this is all about?”, he muses. “You jealous?”

“Just making you remember who owns you, Tim. Never forget it.”

“Oh, marking your territory, right?”

“You can call it that, I suppose”.

“Cool”. “Cool?”

“Yeah, got the message big boy. But you owe me one!”

\-----

I don’t know why I am even surprised. _He had been way too mellow about the whole bathroom incident._

I should have known better than to try and beat Tim at a ‘make him squirm’ game. I’m just a fucking boy grown at the Caymans, he’s a street rat from NY after all.

He’s introducing himself to Elizabeth Debicki from U.N.C.L.E. and he’s his usual charming self, shaking her hand, when he sees me approaching and goes “That’s my lover, Armand Hammer”.

I smile, shrug my shoulder and nod. What ya gonna do?

He won.

He’s batshit crazy and I just love him.


End file.
